Chilorhinophis
by MarsDragon2
Summary: Subject B. Born: 1972. Sex: Male. Hair: Brown. Eyes: Green. Country raised: Britain. False Name: - The lesser of the two results of the American government's Les Enfants Terribles Project, created using analog cloning technology. The dumping ground of all the flawed, recessive genes, created so Subject A would be the perfect soldier.


Written for Greekhoop for Yuletide 2013. Originally uploaded on Archive of Our Own.

* * *

"And what I'm saying is that even if you convince someone they're inferior, their natural ability should shine through! Just believing in yourself and always picturing how to win won't help if you don't have the genes to back it up. Subject B is demonstrating markedly higher abilities not just in survival and fighting, but in leadership as well. He's following perfectly in the original's footsteps."

"That's crazy talk! You tell someone they can't do anything for long enough, they believe you. Subject B will be constantly holding himself back subconsciously. Meme theory is the future, and will allow far broader societal control than trying to genetically engineer everyone!"

"You don't need to genetically engineer everyone, just a core of elites who can control everyone else! By being able to control humans on a bodily level-"

"Both of you, stop it. Arguing isn't going to solve this problem. We've already set up an experiment to prove one of you two right, so just be patient and in a few decades we'll know which solution to pursue. In the meantime, both of you set up your preferred solution. It's entirely possible that we'll need both genes and memes for total societal control."

"Yes, well...yes Major. We're already studying which genes are being expressed in which subjects, and comparing that with the modifications we made on them in the womb. We should have a list of identified soldier genes by the time the adult modification project is ready. We're also looking at cyborg modifications, in case the genetic modifications prove too difficult. Dr. Madner's cyborg and android research may prove fruitful, though it's...

"It's...?"

"It's a little creepy. Like Invasion of the Body-Snatchers or something. Oh, and it's going to take decades to pan out, probably."

"That's fine, that's fine. Rome wasn't built in a day, after all. Donald?"

"Well, I've been working on prototype AIs. They should be able to make basic decisions within a month, and pass the Turing Test within...oh a year or so, probably. I know Dr. Clark's already finished her work for Les Enfants Terribles, and my part of the project should be starting within a week. We've got falsified documents for Subject B to find, and an array of plants and a false organization to support the meme. The reinforcement in early stages is critical."

"Good, good. The rest...is patience."

* * *

_198X_

The hospital was quiet at night. He scratched under his cast with some irritation before lying back again with a huff. It wasn't even as if he had been that badly hurt, if he was still awake and capable of walking around. The roof was the perfect place to sneak over the fence into the neighbor's apple tree, and it was just bad luck that the gutter had creaked, making dad look up and scaring him enough to fall off. Next time he'd be quieter. If he was still here next year.

Everyone else in the room was asleep, with one particularly annoying man snoring like a buzzsaw. If only his parents had bothered with a private room. He rolled over on his side, then rolled back. Neither was comfortable for his arm. He stared at the ceiling. Fine. There had to be something interesting in this building somewhere. Maybe he'd find his own medical records, see if there was anything they weren't telling him. He knew his parents had been hiding something from how they looked at each other and him when the doctor had been talking, and they'd kept talking even after the nurse had led him away. About what? It was time to find out.

He rolled out of bed, landing softly on the floor and headed for the door.

The halls were well lit, but the patrolling nurses and doctors unconcerned and easy to avoid. He peered out from behind a corner, then dashed across when the orderly had passed by. The doctor's room had been around here, right? He saw a nurse walking down the hall and ducked into the nearest room. The lights were on, even if no one was inside. Had this been the doctor's room? It looked like it, he remembered that ugly painting of a river, or possibly a dog. He slipped over to the table, ears perked for any sound from beyond the door. But no one came by, and he was able to take out the pile of papers from the back of the desk in peace. He sifted through them, looking for his name.

_Subject B. Born: 1972. Sex: Male. Hair: Brown. Eyes: Green. Country raised: Britain. False Name: -_

The name and vital info matched. But...Subject B? He pushed his bangs back with one hand and threw a nervous glance towards the door before reading on.

_The lesser of the two results of the American government's Les Enfants Terribles Project, created using analog cloning technology. The dumping ground of all the flawed, recessive genes, created so Subject A would be the perfect soldier. (see: Les Enfants Terribles project notes, available on request from the GHE) Thanks to the use of trans-genetic manipulation and the super baby method..._

Lesser. Flawed, recessive genes. He'd heard about genes before, they were like...building blocks that made you who you were. Some were dominant, some were recessive. It sounded...no, it was definitely bad to have recessive genes. It was right in the name. And he was from a project? "Les Enfants Terribles"...The Terrible Children. He did know French. Children of who? What? Created by cloning...no, that didn't matter. What mattered was the truth. That he was created of flawed genes.

It had to be wrong! Wasn't he good at sneaking? Didn't everyone listen to him at school? He had already skipped a few grades, and might end up skipping more. If he was inferior, what was the other subject like? His...brother. His brother that had taken his original genes and left him the cast-offs. Could he perhaps take his genes back? They'd been taken from him first! That wasn't stealing, it was justice! If he could get his own genes back, how much stronger and smarter would he be? How strong was he _supposed_ to have been?

Before he knew it his fists were clenching in the papers, crumpling away the terrible, precious information.

He smoothed the paper out just as quickly, willing it to flatten and hide his involvement. He had to take this carefully. He had to watch, gather information, gain allies... He stared at the paper, as if it would give him a plan of its own accord.

First off, more information about this "Les Enfants Terribles". He had to find out everything about himself, everything about his brother. Everything about genetics and how they were made. He needed to train himself to fight, to be smart, to lead people. He'd join the army, find out everything the government was trying to hide...and use that to burn it down.

* * *

_198X, two years later_

It hadn't been in the news. No adults talked about it openly. None of the intercepted communications from the GHE mentioned it. But everyone knew.

Big Boss was coming.

The legendary soldier who was famous all over the world. The man who had completed every mission ever given to him perfectly. The philanthropist who personally helped reintegrate former child soldiers back into society. He was coming to this town to see the army base and talk with the soldiers there. It was going to be a media circus, a scene of absolute bedlam where no one not already approved could get close.

The boy slipped his Solid magazine - the one with Big Boss on the cover and the feature story about San Hieronymo - back into the box under the bed, where it joined the other magazines and the documents from the GHE. He was almost trembling with excitement. Who cares how tight the security was going to be? Even if he was the inferior clone, he was still the true son of Big Boss. A terrible child created to be the ...well, slightly less than perfect but still better than anyone else soldier. Sneaking past a bunch of reporters and bored guards wouldn't even be a challenge. Smiling to himself and already planning out the optimal entrance route in his head, he climbed into bed and fell asleep.

The next day he ate breakfast and slipped out of the house without a word. Getting to where Big Boss was scheduled to appear was easy, even if he had to dodge more and more crowds as he got closer. But who would care about some skinny kid when they could have a chance at seeing a real life hero? A woman shoved him back, but he just pressed between her and her presumable husband and kept moving until finally he was up against the bright yellow tape barricades separating the rubbernecking crowds from the reporters and soldiers authorized to meet Big Boss. Someone shoved him from behind and the tape dug uncomfortably into his chest and forehead. It was hard to breathe, but this was an important part of his plan. He let the push and pull of the crowd drag him further away from the center and closer to the storage buildings on the side, until finally he was shoved up against the wall so hard the wood imprinted on his cheek. Perfect. Everyone's gaze was turned towards the circle of reporters, away from a bunch of boring buildings. He forced himself down, feeling the scrape against his body, and ducked under the tape barrier. No one said anything. With one eye on the couple guards that blankly stared over the crowd he crouch-ran along the side of the building until he could turn the corner and press himself against the wall, panting as silently as possible. It was a good thing he had chosen to wear his most worn, beige clothes today. With some extra dirt smeared on his face he was barely noticeable as long as he kept still. Still, just to be sure...he pressed his back against the wall and slid over until he could just barely slip into the door. Now, no one would be able to find him at all.

Now, all he had to do was wait.

The sun moved, and perhaps an hour passed. The crowd broke up slowly as final statements were made, last minute flashes went off, and Big Boss himself gave a final wave and walked away with a couple other men. In fact, he was coming right towards the storage building. What a stroke of luck! The boy began to wiggle out of the crack between the door and the building, preparing to run over and finally meet the legendary Big Boss. He'd finally meet his father, who would recognize him even if he was the inferior clone, and then they'd go off together. He'd be trained by Big Boss himself! If he had the right training, not even flawed genes could keep him from being a great soldier. With the right training, not even his brother could beat him!

Maybe he'd even prove himself worthy of the codename "Snake", just like Big Boss when he was young.

Carefully he worked his way through the dust and gravel on his stomach, freezing every time someone looked in his general direction. But no one really expected an attack on Big Boss, not here, and pretty soon Big Boss was coming up on him. He flattened himself even further down behind a few scraggly scraps of grass and held his breath, trying not to shake and give away his position. A man in sunglasses with ridiculous hair was talking to Big Boss - Kazuhira Miller wasn't it, he had been in an article once - when Big Boss stopped dead.

Big Boss was looking straight at him.

Stay still, and hope it was just a coincidence? Ridiculous. Hadn't he wanted to meet Big Boss? There was no reason to be ashamed of getting this far. He stood up and dusted himself off, ignoring the confused gasps and one man drawing a gun. He looked Big Boss straight in the eye and smiled. "Hello...father."

Big Boss hmped and drew a cigar out of his pocket, lighting it without ever taking his eye off the boy in front of him. His gaze wasn't friendly; he instead looked like he had found an unexpected complication in a previously smooth plan. Behind him Miller was trying to get one guard to lower his gun, saying "calm down, it's just a kid. Boss knows how to handle them." He succeeded, though the guard still looked wary. The other two guards hadn't drawn any weapons, but one had his radio out and was staring suspiciously.

Big Boss took a deep drag on his cigar and jerked his head towards Miller. "Take the men and go find something else to do for a while. I'll handle this one."

"But...but Boss..." said one of the soldiers, but he was silenced with glare from Big Boss. Miller just nodded and gathered up the rest of the guards to leave. He looked at the pair once more before walking away, but his expression behind the sunglasses was impossible to read.

Then they were alone, with nothing but dust and the sound of the last few reporters leaving in the background. Big Boss just kept smoking his cigar, as if he had all the time in the world. Finally he shrugged and said "So...they did it after all. I can tell just by looking at you he wasn't lying about that, at least."

Who hadn't been lying? It was a mystery to consider for another time. "That's right. I'm one of your clones, a product of the Les Enfants Terribles project. My name -"

Big Boss cut him off. "You already know about that project? Damn. Kids these days." He shook his head. "So, what do you want? You didn't sneak all the way in here just to have a family reunion, did you?"

"No, not at all. I want to come with you! To study under you, and work in MSF! I know I'm young, but you've seen my sneaking skills. I've been taking some basic combat classes as well, and I'm top of my class at school. I know I can help out. So...how about it?"

Big Boss just stared at him, his mouth open in blatant disbelief. "Seriously? Look, I know they think I'm not as smart as they are, but that doesn't mean I'm _stupid_. Did you really think I'd just take you along, just like that?"

A strange cold feeling settled in his chest, like all the blood was flowing out. Did Big Boss know about the entire project? Did he know about the dominant and recessive genes? Did...did his recessive genes make him that incompetent? He'd done pretty well sneaking in here, hadn't he? He tried to grab on to something else to say, something that didn't make him sound like a whiny child. "I thought you'd enjoy being able to train someone as good as you. To be able to pick someone to come after you. I want to help you, so please, please give me a chance!"

Big Boss took the cigar out his mouth and frowned at it before turning away. "Leave, kid. I don't need some second-rate photocopy hanging around."

Second-rate photocopy. Big Boss did know, and rejected him for it. After all this, after all he'd tried, he couldn't escape the curse of his genes. He started forward, trying to think of a way to save the situation, to convince Big Boss that he wasn't second-rate, that he wasn't just a copy of someone better. Even if he was. Before he could even start to form a reply, Big Boss spoke at him over his shoulder. "Listen, kid. You go back home, sit back, and watch my children do their work. These children I'm raising...they'll be my true legacy. The legacy of freedom. Of endless war. Every one of them a soldier without a country, without an ideology. An army loyal to only one thing: war! And with that army, I'll be able to fight the greatest enemy of all...the enemy of all soldiers everywhere. If I took you along, I'd be sure to lose, wouldn't I? I'm not going to do that. This battle...it's too important for that."

"Go back to your masters and tell them this: I'll burn the world to the ground before I let them have it."

And with those parting words Big Boss walked away, leaving nothing but a shaking child in his wake.

* * *

_199X_

The sun baked everything away; water, flesh, thoughts, names. Once he had given them his name and serial number, spitting out the syllables until they were just meaningless noise above the soft thud of fist meeting flesh. Now he couldn't even give them that, his entire identity burned away under the pitiless Iraqi sun.

No. There was one part of him that thrived in this environment. The part that snaked through him telling him to survive, to find the coolest spots, to eat anything he could catch, to hide until he was ready to break out. The him that was embedded in the very genes, the genes of the greatest soldier of the 20th century. No matter how flawed or inferior they were compared to his father or brother, they still called out to him to survive. A snake was always at home in the wilderness. That was the message coded into his very DNA, a message that came from an identity they could never take from him.

Other men broke and lived, held out and died, broke and died. It didn't matter. The guards changed, the beatings continued, the war went on, the sun burned and the night was filled with stars.

Time ceased.

Was that all the son of the legendary Big Boss was good for? To be sent into a hellish desert to die by superiors who probably hadn't even noticed he was gone? The rest of his unit might have gotten away, or perhaps they hadn't. The missiles had been found and destroyed in accordance with American wishes, or they hadn't. The brass back at home didn't care about them either way. Just another soul to feed into the desert, more grist for the mill. They'd never treat Big Boss like that. They'd told him to be a sleeper agent, that the contact was reliable, that they'd be sure to back him up. That he was too valuable to lose.

They hadn't mentioned the real mission, that the contact would betray him as part of the mission and then just leave him to be picked up by a stray squadron of enemy soldiers. That they wouldn't even try to get him out, because he had been a decoy all along, to shore up the filthy traitor's word. They already had someone on the inside. What did they need him for?

They never would've done that during the Cold War. Back then they had needed men like him. Men like Big Boss. Ha, would some slimy politicians ever dared to send Big Boss on a false mission, only to set him up for betrayal? Never. When Big Boss had gone after a traitor back in Operation Snake Eater, the top brass had backed him because it was that or nuclear war. Back then, men like him were respected, honored, made heroes. Now...

Now he was slowly desiccated under the desert sun.

He'd put great pride in his learning, once. Fluent in seven languages, top of his class in anything he put effort into, concepts and theories coming as easily as rain from the sky. Now, what did all his education have for him? What need had he of how to get directions in Malay, the classic strategic maneuvers, poetry? The only thing keeping him alive was the blessing, no matter how flawed, of Big Boss' inherently superior genes. The world he had tried so hard to succeed in, to conquer, that world had spit him out like so much garbage.

What did he have left but the code written in his DNA? These genes were his destiny, their expression the very reason for his existence. They were flawed. They were cursed. But they were his. The only thing in this burning hell he could call his own.

He'd prove their worth. Even if he was flawed in every way compared to his brother, he'd prove that he had what it took. That he could do the same things. He'd prove it even if they would never let him have the chance.

He'd make that chance himself.

* * *

_1997_

The GHE communications were only consistent in their utter inanity. Apparently now Les Enfants Terribles were no longer Enfants, they didn't have much to say. He only kept monitoring the memos and endlessly forwarded emails out of habit and to see what his brother was up to. Joined the Marines, joined the Green Berets, went on various successful missions while he had been rotting in a prison camp...as expected of the superior brother. If the poisonous pain wasn't so sweet and familiar it would be enough to make him put his fist straight through the monitor and find the shooting range.

It didn't matter. It never mattered. He was just biding time until they could meet and he could prove himself. If it wasn't for getting sold out he'd have the better record, after all. It wouldn't harm him in the end.

It wouldn't...would it?

_Subject A has been accepted into the elite military unit FOXHOUND, training under the original. The original appears to like him, and considers him a "promising young agent" (his own words). Though he is careful to avoid blatant favoritism, the original has been especially careful that Subject A should learn CQC. Some remnant of parental affection, perhaps?_

Accepted into FOXHOUND. Training under the original. The original appeared to like him. The original made sure he learned CQC, the legendary combat technique Big Boss had personally helped develop.

"Leave, kid. I don't need some second-rate photocopy hanging around."

That cold, empty feeling was back, like he was back in that dusty base unable to do anything but watch as his father tossed him away like an old cigar. No, he was back there, and back in the POW camp, and back in the hospital where he'd first found out about his entire cursed heritage. It was all the same. Once again he was being tossed away because he wasn't needed.

Was this all the plan from the start? He had tried to tell himself that maybe Big Boss just didn't want any clones around, that they were both just faded copies to him. But this made lie to all of that, didn't it? His brother had been chosen to carry on Big Boss' legacy. Big Boss had chosen him to mentor, to pass on everything he knew.

Had that been the plan all along?

He had been chosen as the inferior one since before he was born. His brother had stolen everything from him while they were still in the womb. Had...had Big Boss had a say? Had his father chosen him to be the lesser one all the way back then? Perhaps he had looked at a monitor just like this one, and had said "That one. That's the one I don't need. The other one will be my champion, my legacy."

His fist smashed straight through the glass of the monitor, but he didn't feel any pain. His hand was bloody, broken, and far away. But even if he erased the screen the words were on, they were still true, weren't they? It didn't matter how much he denied it. Big Boss had chosen his brother. He was just...scraps.

There had to be something he could do. He could show up his brother, prove he was the better soldier. He would join FOXHOUND, no, he would lead FOXHOUND like Big Boss did! He could still do it! He could still claim his destiny back from his brother, steal away what was written in his very genes! Wasn't that the entire point of the genome experiments during the Gulf War? They'd proved that childish fantasy correct!

He just...he just had to do it. No matter what, this was something he couldn't fail. More than joining the SAS, more than surviving the POW camp. Cradling his bloody hand close to his chest, he knew what he had to do. There was no time to waste.

* * *

"The cyborgization project is progressing at a quick pace, Major. In fact, he's almost ready to be let out, maybe even tomorrow! That's after the complete reconstruction of his entire nerve system, of course. The wiring there is tricky, but humans are resilient. I'm sure he'll pull right through."

"Good work, doctor. If you're able to bring Grey Fox back from the dead...well, we'll never have to fear losing great soldiers ever again."

"Exactly. In fact, with this technology...we might even be able to revive Big Boss."

"You still want to do that, eh?"

"You're always attached to your first project. And with the experimental control systems I'm putting into the cyborg, we wouldn't have to worry about him running off on his own to try and become a nuclear power with a couple old Eastern Bloc scientists and a robot. Really, did he think he was going to remake The Mouse that Roared with a Metal Gear? It's a cute movie, but how could anyone think it would work in real life?"

"Yes, well. I'll consider it, though I can't say it won't be dangerous. It might not even be worth it, if the rest of our projects keep paying out like this."

"Well...the Genome Soldiers aren't going so well. We still haven't worked out how to completely eliminate the genetic rejection systems that show up as Gulf War Syndrome...though I have some high hopes, we'll probably get cyborgization up first. And while Les Enfants Terribles did get us a couple of super-soldiers just like it was supposed to-"

"A couple of super soldiers that are perfectly under our control, unlike their father."

"Yes yes, there's that. I have to admit, Subject A is succeeding beyond my wildest dreams. I'm surprised Big Boss trained him so well. He hated the project whenever I tried to talk to him about it, and I don't think we ever actually got permission to clone him."

"No idea. Perhaps it was all just cover so he could kill Solid Snake at Outer Heaven and prove some ridiculous point about how he didn't need to be replaced. Well! We've seen how that's worked out for him...twice now."

"It's a pity, really... Oh, but back to Les Enfants Terribles, Subject B isn't doing so badly himself. He's shortlisted to join FOXHOUND just on his own merits, no intervention required. In addition, it seems the mix of genes he inherited from Big Boss comes with his charisma and leadership abilities. We left them out of the Soldier Genes, but it's useful to have those mapped just in case."

"It seems the fight between gene and meme isn't over just yet... We've been feeding him nonsense memes since he was a child, but he's still displaying this level of natural ability."

"Well...we did clone him from the greatest soldier of the 20th century...who believed eating glowing mushrooms would recharge his battery."

"Yes, but wasn't he right about that?"

"..."

* * *

_2000_

Joining FOXHOUND was...easier than expected. Physical fitness test? Piece of cake. Push-ups and pull-ups? Pathetic. Combat diving he could do in his sleep. He apparently had absolutely zero ESP potential, but that wasn't a qualifying requirement. He knew more languages and better than any of the other candidates, and his knowledge of Middle East geography and political affairs were second to none.

He outperformed all the other fools to get in without even trying. The real challenge came in the training afterwards. The training that would earn him the codename he'd bear as long as he stayed in FOXHOUND...or in other words, the rest of his life. He'd die on the battlefield or not at all.

They'd already completed all the classroom training. Now he was finishing up the real stuff, infiltrating buildings, test battlefield situations, wilderness survival. He rather enjoyed the survival. It was thrilling, crawling in the jungle through the rain, armed with nothing but a pistol and a knife, trying to survive -

- in the hot desert with only a fork they'd barely deigned to give him, hunting rats -

- no. He couldn't have the nightmares, not here. Not when he was so close. Not when he was about to overcome his brother by going further in FOXHOUND than Solid Snake ever had. He wasn't going to quit after two missions, after all. What could he have seen that made him retreat like that? It couldn't have been killing their father, he had done that easily enough!

No, concentrate. Concentrate on the mission at hand. He slipped into a hollow log and stabbed a treefrog that had, up until a moment ago, known nothing but a peaceful life. Not much of a meal, treefrogs. With luck he'd find something bigger soon. But it kept the hunger away, and concentrating on eating kept him from thinking of how he'd been betrayed, back then. He took out the binoculars and scouted ahead as best he could in the rain. Rain was useful sometimes, it could cover scents, lower visibility, and reduce tracks to a soggy ruin. But low visibility was a double edged sword, and mud could as easily hold tracks as destroy them. He put the binoculars away and planned out his route. Best to go while it was still pouring rain than wait for it to clear. There was a check point nearby that was the goal for today, the last day of battlefield survival training. There he'd get airlifted out, back to civilization. All he had to do was make it there. Simple. Easy.

He crawled out into the rain, keeping his profile as low as possible and splattering his face with mud. Any sort of camouflage was valuable out here. Not like the desert, where any object stood out like a sign post...

He ducked his head and kept going. Later. Later he'd banish all the memories, all the doubt. Once he'd achieved his goal, when he'd be the one pulling the strings. When he'd show up his brother and prove to their dead father -

- "second-rate photocopy" -

- that Big Boss should've picked him in the first place, should never have written him off. But that was for later. Now was for checking ahead for any possible enemies, or even animals that could spook and alert someone. Now was for swimming with just his eyes above water. Now was for the mission.

The check point was just over the next hill, past a mass of greenery that obscured everything. There was no point where he could stand up or even crouch until he was in there. He wished for something besides the binoculars that were now covered in rain drops and nearly useless, but it was all the scouting technology he had right now. He laid still and listened. There was the drip of water on water, on mud, on leaves. The chirp of birds and the croaking of frogs. Rustling in the undergrowth! It was to the right, a little above him. He dug himself down deeper into the mud on the lakeside and watched as carefully as possible. Was it an animal? An enemy (trainer) scouting?

The rustling died down. An animal, then? A scout would probably keep moving on patrol...unless he'd been sighted. But in that case they'd probably be calling for backup and shooting at him by now. Or they could've just caught a glimpse and were waiting to see what he'd do first...best thing to do would be to just keep quiet and wait.

Mud crawled into his boots, under his collar, up his sleeves. The rustling started again, quieter. The leaves at the edge of the treeline twitched, and he could just barely catch the hint of camo cloth and a top of a boot. Another recruit? It could still be a scout, but something, his instincts as a soldier, told him that an actual scout wouldn't be moving so intermittently. If it was just another recruit and he hadn't heard or seen anything suspicious besides them, it was probably okay to get up and start moving. He pushed himself up and crept up to the tree line, not bothering to scrape off the mud that dripped from his front. It was just extra camouflage for later.

When he saw the flash of a gun muzzle in the bushes he stopped and raised his hands, showing his lack of weapon. The muzzle wavered and he followed up with the official FOXHOUND hand signal, designed especially for situations like this. At that the muzzle dropped and he heard more rustling from the bushes. The recruit didn't seem interested in coming out, which was very sensible, so he followed into the leaves. The twigs scratched at any exposed skin, but the rain was slightly lessened by the cover, and he settled onto the damp ground with a vague feeling of relief. Across from him an equally soaked woman he remembered from previous exercises carefully pointed her pistol away from him without putting it away and pointed towards the check point.

He nodded in return, and gestured that she should go ahead of him. He remembered her being much faster on the draw and more aggressive than the other recruits, and had no desire to be between her and any enemies. She didn't make any gestures in reply, just dropped to a crawl and started working her way through the undergrowth again. He followed, keeping as careful an ear out as he could for anything over the sound of them making their way through the undergrowth.

The women didn't stop until the check point was in sight. It was a tall, unmarked pole in the middle of a natural clearing, with a special tactile sensor at about chest height and a rotating camera on top. The final trial was to touch the sensor without being seen by the camera. He crawled up next to the woman and started making a note of the camera's movements. If they started running as soon as it passed over them...

The woman tapped on his shoulder, then held up an object. She had found a chaff grenade somewhere? ...that would take care of the problem. She pointed at the camera, as if he couldn't figure it out himself, then pulled the pin. He tucked his head into his arm to avoid the flash, waited three seconds after the soft whump of deploying chaff to listen for any alerted scouts, then started running. The woman was less cautious and was already at the pole, placing her hand on the sensor. He followed suit, holding his hand there until the small light turned green and he could relax. Battlefield survival training was completed, and even if they were seen now it wouldn't matter. All they had to do was wait.

Beside him the woman rested her back against the pole and slid down to the muddy ground. "Whew. Glad that's over with. I'm looking forward to a hot shower and a meal, let me tell you."

"Mmm." A hot shower would be nice, after 14 weeks out here. Like it had been nice after - it would be nice. The helicopter should be coming along for extraction in a few minutes, so hopefully they wouldn't have to wait too long.

The woman had kept talking. "You know, I never actually caught your name. I'm -"

"I don't need to know your name right now. And you don't need mine. Our entire purpose here has been to find our new names, our iproper/i names. Who needs a name from the past, before the battlefield?"

"Well, I don't think my mom is going to accept calling me some sort of animal until I die or retire. But...you're right. We'll find out who we are once we get back."

They lapsed into silence again for a few minutes, listening to the beat of the rain and the whir of the camera above them. The rain seemed to be lightening, a bit. Not that it mattered when you were already soaked to the bone. The woman fiddled with the edge of her sleeve absently, staring at the edge of the clearing. When she spoke again, it was quieter, barely audible over the rain. "Hey...why'd you join FOXHOUND anyway? They scouted me from the regular army. I just...wanted to serve as best I could. It's partly the prestige, but more than that, I want to serve my country as best I can, to my absolute limits. I thought I could find that in FOXHOUND."

"Have you?"

"Well, so far this training's been worse than anything the army threw at me during my entire career there. I guess that's a good sign?" She sighed and ran a muddy hand through her short dark hair. "Well, that's me. What about you?"

_I wanted to show up my father and brother. I wanted to make my mark. I wanted to prove I could do it, no matter what my genes say._ "I joined because of my family. I wanted to test myself to the limit as well, and to show them all what I could do. Serving my "country"...I gave up on that back in Iraq."

"You were in Iraq? You're a lot older than I am, then." She paused again, then looked at him. "Sorry if this is an awkward question, but what made you give up on serving your country?"

As if she could understand. If she hadn't seen Iraq, she'd probably never seen an actual war. Still... "I realized that the brass, the commanders, the politicians...they're the enemies of all soldiers, everywhere. We're just pawns to them, to be used and thrown away as they choose." He clenched his fist and turned to face her. "I was sold out by my commanders and spent four years in a prison camp in the middle of the desert, left to survive on my own. And I did. But did any of them care? I only got rescued when the US happened across us! If they hadn't bothered...I might still be there. And for all that, I get a pat on the back and a transfer!" He was breathing hard, and belatedly realized he had been shouting. Well, this was a topic that deserved shouting! This woman, this soldier, she had to understand before she got herself killed for an ideal that would never even notice she was gone.

The woman just stared at him, not quite afraid but more distant than she'd been before. "'Politicians are the enemies of soldiers everywhere'...sounds like Big Boss. Are you going to try and create an Outer Heaven too?"

"It would be a grand dream, wouldn't it? A world just for soldiers, where they could choose their own destinies on the battlefield..." Big Boss had never been able to create it. He'd been destroyed by his own son at the behest of the politicians he was trying to free the world from. Big Boss...had failed. If he could create Outer Heaven, in Big Boss' place...wouldn't that be even better than leading FOXHOUND? The old man could watch from heaven as the son he never favored, never cared for even once, succeed where he had failed! Twice!

"Yeah, but...Outer Heaven failed. And Zanzibarland...I read some of the reports that came out of here. Population of 40,000, military size of 40,000. Defense expenditure, 75% of GDP. You can't create a country like that. It just doesn't work, economically. Someone needs to keep the world running while we're off fighting wars. There needs to be someone to come home to."

"Zanzibarland was the creation of a madman broken by failure. Did you read the reports about the child soldiers? Big Boss took in war orphans and raised them to be the next generation of soldiers to fight in his world of endless war." And he was more proud of them than he was ever proud of you. He considered them his legacy, not you. He said as much himself. He shook off the memories. As if those children had done him any good against his actual son. He continued. "But just because Big Boss was insane, it doesn't mean some of his ideas didn't have merit. Even if he failed in the end."

"If someone else thinks like you, we're going to keep getting to fight crazy assholes with Metal Gears forever. Great. Just resist the urge to steal all the nukes yourself, okay?" She stood up and stretched, then cocked her head to the side. "You hear that? I think it's our ticket out of here."

Yes, there was the sound of rotors over the fading rain. They'd be out of here soon. He scraped some of the mud off his clothes in an effort to look slightly more presentable. It didn't help. The woman was attempting to do the same thing, with about the same level of success. Finally she gave up and turned to him. "It was nice talking to you, at least. I'm looking forward to working with you in the future."

Above them the helicopter crew shouted instructions and let down a ladder for them to climb. He grabbed on before replying. "I'll see you if we both survive out there, on the battlefield." She nodded back, and he started to climb to the helicopter. Pretty soon he'd be back at the main FOXHOUND base for the promised hot shower and meal, and to find out his true name.

Something to look forward to.

Later, the commander droned on and on about duty and honor and serving as part of a greater whole. It held no meaning for someone that had already seen the truth. But the important part was coming up. Finally the old man finished his speech, and the real part of the ceremony could begin. "Now you will all be sworn in as members of FOXHOUND. Once that's completed I'll be calling you up here individually to give you your codenames. After that, you will all be full-fledged members of the greatest special ops team in the entire world. Now, repeat after me..."

They dutifully repeated the words about loyalty and service, working through them by rote. Perhaps one or two out of the five actually believed in them. Then they were called up. The woman got the codename 'Jackal' for her aggression and determination. Another man got 'Hippopotamus'. 'Eagle', 'Mongoose', and then it was his turn. He walked up to the stage filled with tension and...something like foreboding.

The commander smiled like he was posing for a camera crew and shook his hand. "While you didn't gain the across the board high rankings for the 'Fox' ranking, your incredible talent with stealth and especially survival have earned you the codename 'Snake'. This, plus a self-chosen personal identifier, will be your name from this day forward to your leaving the unit, whenever it may be. It may be your name for the rest of your life. Only two other agents have earned that name in the history of FOXHOUND. Congratulations."

...how disgustingly appropriate. But isn't that why he'd come to FOXHOUND to begin with? To follow his father and brother, and then surpass them? In time, he'd be the one known only as 'Snake'.

But he needed a personal identifier. A chosen weapon or fighting style was the general style, but he never had one of those. He was good at fisticuffs, but 'Boxing Snake' didn't make a single bit of sense. 'Changed Snake'...was still ridiculous. Well...his brother had been given the name 'Solid Snake' by their father. As the other twin, the brother living in darkness, he had to be the opposite of Solid.

"Hey." Someone had spoken behind him and he turned around to see Jackal. She waved at him. "So you're Snake now? That's really good. What're you going to use for your personal identifier? I've been thinking about 'Bloody' or 'Snapping', try to get away from the weapon theme, but...I dunno. 'Shotgun Jackal' has a nice ring to it, and doesn't sound nearly as pretentious as 'Bloody Jackal' or something."

Snake shrugged. "I don't have a favored enough weapon to use that method anyway. I've always preferred being a generalist. So for me, there's only one option." He grinned in satisfaction. It did feel right, like the name had been made for him all along. So this was fulfilling destiny.

"From this day forward, call me Liquid Snake."

* * *

_2004_

FOXHOUND changed with the times, as it always did. Members came and left, either with a chest full of medals and a mind full of nightmares or face down in a warzone. Creep Spider went missing in Algeria, Shotgun Jackal died in Iraq, they found Auto Gorilla in a shallow grave in the Ukrainian backwoods. Vulcan Raven and Revolver Ocelot joined the group. Missions were run, the budget was debated, and members were promoted.

Liquid Snake shoved another batch of paperwork across his desk with a snarl. At times, being field commander of FOXHOUND was an exciting, tense job. Other times it involved a massive amount of bureaucracy. Some months there just weren't any terrorist plots to foil or governments to knock down and all there was to do was sign papers and make sure the coffee and ammo requisitions got in on time.

Someone knocked on the door and Liquid perked up instantly, ready for a distraction. "Come in."

Sniper Wolf opened the door and poked her head in. "We need more targets on the shooting range again, Boss. And I need another case of anthelmintics for my boys."

"Fine, I'll add them to the requisitions." Liquid scribbled a note on a convenient scrap of paper and tossed it onto the pile. "Didn't we just get a new set of targets? What did you do with all of them?"

Wolf shrugged. She pushed open the door and leaned in the doorway, posture to careful to be casual. "There's nothing else to do, so I was having shooting contests with Ocelot and Raven. Ocelot's not bad, for all his weapon's as outdated as his entire style. Call it a training expense, if you want."

"Hmph. So you're all bored too?"

"Sometimes there's just not a war on. Though I have to admit, when I signed up I thought working for the US army would be more...exciting."

"If the politicians can get everything they want with just money, why bother with us? We're just tools to be kept in reserve for them."

Wolf snorted and jerked her head as much as she ever did. "Just dogs, to be kept in our kennels until the hunt. It is how I have known since I was a child...only those who have been on the battlefield can understand it."

Liquid nodded absently. He'd heard similar sentiments from nearly everyone on the main FOXHOUND squad, except Raven. Even if they were the United States' most elite military team, they were still treated as something cheap and expendable by the politicians. By the kind of men who would only ever see a battlefield on CNN. It rankled, and it was good that it did. It meant all the nights he'd spent carefully going over backgrounds and all the days arguing that a group of foreigners and an American who'd joined the Russians in the Cold War were good enough to be part of the US Army's elite special forces weren't wasted at all.

In fact, they were about to come to fruition. He looked right at Wolf and said, "That's right. Wolf, you knew Saladin...Big Boss. Did he ever tell you about his dream? About Outer Heaven?"

It was finally time.

* * *

_early 2005_

"Everyone, report," Liquid said he strode into the meeting room, still reeling from how easy it had all been. Taking over Shadow Moses had been a desperate grab for an opportunity that would never come again, and he hadn't expected it to go as smoothly as it had. Now they had a Metal Gear, an entire force of genetically-enhanced soldiers, and two very important hostages. They'd been planning to turn against the politicians for months, slowly gathering resources and allies, and then an untraceable nuclear warhead dropped in their lap. It was almost enough to believe in luck.

"I've brought all the Genome Soldiers under my control. It's a simple command, just enough to make them forget their loyalty to the government and to not panic over the mutation rate. It's pathetic how easy it was," Mantis said. "We've been working on their sympathies for long enough that we barely even need the brainwashing. Just enough to get those last few scruples out of the way."

Wolf stood up and stretched from the chair she had been leaning against. "Raven and I checked the perimeter security. The snow and freezing water should discourage a major attack, at least for the rest of the operation. I've got the boys hanging out in the caves, and Raven found a tank to use. We've increased patrols on all important areas and the docks. Anyone trying to get in will have...difficulties." Raven nodded in agreement, though his face was unreadable.

"Don't get overconfident. Big Boss had an entire country as his security in Zanzibarland, and look where that got him. There's no way they won't send in Solid Snake again. We don't have to worry about a full-scale assault, we have to worry about one infiltrator." Ocelot spoke as if he'd been the only one that had studied Big Boss's failures.

"Of course they'll send him in. But we'll be ready for him this time. And even if he somehow gets in...REX isn't a scrapheap built in a third-world hellhole. This is the best machine American money can buy. Let him come...and be destroyed." It was nearly impossible for Liquid Snake to keep the excitement out of his voice. Finally, he was going to meet his brother, on a battlefield where he held all the advantages. It would take more than superior genes to overcome superior planning and forces! It was high time for Snake to learn that. But for now... "Ocelot, be sure to get REX's launch codes out of the hostages before Snake appears. This entire operation is useless if we can't launch a nuke. In fact, with any luck we'll be done by the time they can drag him out of whatever hole he's buried himself in."

Ocelot nodded and spun his revolver in what could possibly be a salute. "Leave it to me, Boss. I'll break open those pencil-pushers in under an hour."

"I'll talk to the scientists, if there's nothing else to do. I've already studied both the hostages, if we need to imitate one of them in the future." It was never not a surprise when Octopus spoke up. The man had a habit of fading into the background to the point of Liquid forgetting he was there.

"Good job, Octopus. Yes, go make sure the scientists are finishing their work like they're supposed to. After all, the project's still on, even if the client has...changed." Liquid paused to look around at his men, trying to see any hint of nervousness or less than sincere belief in what they were doing.

He found none. "Then, if that's all, I'll send the demands to Washington. Wolf and Raven, continue to keep an eye on security. Mantis, keep a watch out for an infiltrators. Ocelot and Octopus, you know what to do. Any questions?" There were none. "Then, dismissed!"

* * *

"Donald! Donald, are you all right? We finally managed to overcome the jamming, and I don't know how long we have. This entire operation is more competent than I thought."

"I'm fine for now, but it looks like this is the end of the line, frankly. They need REX's launch codes, and I'm not going to give them up. Plus Ocelot's here...my chances of walking out are pretty damn low."

"I'm sorry. We should've guessed they'd go after Metal Gear."

"If you give a Snake a Metal Gear... Heh. Maybe Dr. Clark was right after all."

"We've sent in Solid Snake. It's not exactly how we planned, but this is the final test. This is where we find out if the way forward is with genes or memes. If Liquid wins...well, we haven't been able to rely on Ocelot for years, but I don't think he'd let Liquid take Big Boss's triumph."

"I can't tell. I never could tell, not with Ocelot. But even if Liquid does create Outer Heaven, GW is already active. My legacy...even if they kill me, my work will continue."

"That's right. Not even Big Boss himself could take us down. Like father, like son, eh? They both made the same mistakes. A Metal Gear can't solve all your problems."

"Yeah. I can hear them coming for me, no. Well...this is goodbye, Major."

"Goodbye, Donald."

* * *

_early 2005, several hours later_

Ocelot came personally to give Liquid the news.

"He gave up, Boss. There's a human under the legend after all. No useful information, but we knew that already. If he had the codes he would've told Octopus. Now for the woman, as promised."

He replied automatically, thinking of half-coalesced future plans while the present whirled around him. "Don't kill her yet. She can still be useful to us. Wait until after they've given in or we launch the nuke."

Ocelot shrugged philosophically. "Very well, Boss. I'll try...but life can be a slippery thing. But don't worry. A corpse is just as good of a prop as a live person." Liquid nodded and Ocelot left humming some Russian tune.

Snake had given in. The legendary Solid Snake, the man who defeated Big Boss twice, the man who had stolen everything from him, the man who was genetically superior to him on every level couldn't stand up to Ocelot's torture.

It was absurd. He'd never given up in Iraq, not once! No matter how they'd beaten him, starved him, electrocuted him, they'd never gotten anything but the Big 4. He was left with nightmares that plagued him even now, but he'd never, ever broken. Was it just that Ocelot's ...professional machine was that much better than a car battery in the desert? Or...

The Codec beeped in his ear, and he barely remembered to brush his hair back and jam the sunglasses on before answering. Snake's voice over the Codec was worn and harsh and Liquid wanted to curse him for how human he sounded. "Master, I..."

Liquid didn't want to hear it. After everything Snake had stolen from him, he didn't want to hear him apologize for being weak. Didn't want him to be weak in the first place! What was the joy of a victory if it was over an opponent who wasn't superior in the least? Liquid forced all the emotions down and concentrated on the mission. He still needed Snake to completely activate REX. They'd gone through all his belongings looking for the three card keys and found nothing. If the faceless bastards in the Pentagon wanted to stop Metal Gear they'd have to tell Snake how to do it eventually. If he was going to build Outer Heaven, if he was going to prove himself superior to his father and brother once and for all, he had to encourage Snake for now. He kept his voice calm and reassuring, careful to maintain the American accent. "Don't say it, Snake. You still have a mission to accomplish. That's all you should be concentrating on right now."

Snake just grunted and signed off. Liquid kept the Codec open and scanning on Campbell's frequency. Any information was good at this point, the Americans couldn't know they didn't have the capability to launch a nuke. He had to know what they'd do next.

What his somehow-human brother would do next.

* * *

_two hours later_

Metal Gear REX. A wonderful machine, created to be the ultimate deterrent...and to be the ultimate deterrent, first it had to be the ultimate weapon. Lasers, missiles, gatling guns, it was impossible for mere infantry to defeat...and to top it all off, it had the perfect stealth nuclear launch method. Able to launch a nuke from anywhere to anywhere on the globe, and mobile enough to be gone before anyone could trace the warhead back to where it came from. And it was not only functional, but beautiful as well. Unlike the previous TX-55 and D that were covered in unsightly bulges and awkward, spindly legs, REX truly looked like a weapon to upset the balance of the world. The powerful legs, the massive railgun, the cockpit shaped like massive jaws...it had the image of a great breast of war, raised out of the earth in modern electronics and steel. He'd once seen the skeleton of a T-rex as a child, and he'd been in awe of the mighty beast of the past that had towered above him. If it had come alive, he had thought, it would tear apart everyone in the museum in seconds. And now man had surpassed it. This, this was truly a weapon worthy of being called 'king'.

Liquid Snake reached out and brushed at the glass separating him from REX. The time when it would be fully active was getting closer by the second, as Solid Snake found his way past the last few obstacles to the hanger. And when he made it here...he'd happily hand over everything they wanted in the name of _stopping_ REX. Thank heaven for the instinct to make backups and redundancies built into every engineer. It had taken sacrifices, but what dream didn't? Decoy Octopus, Psycho Mantis, Sniper Wolf, Vulcan Raven...more graves from the hand of his bloodthirsty brother.

Once REX was active he'd be able to take care of Solid Snake easily, in any case. Snake had only made it this far because they'd let him. It was all coming together. Liquid looked out over the hanger and saw his destiny unfold before him.

But there was another reflection in the glass. An old man with one eye, white hair and a full beard. An old man tired and worn down from a life of endless fighting. An old man with his face.

Liquid stared at the ghost in the glass in shock and anger. Big Boss stared back, silently.

"What are you here for, _father_? To mock me again? I'm about to succeed where you failed!"

Big Boss stared silently.

"Snake is dancing to my tune now. It's not like it was back in Outer Heaven, where you were defeated. He'll give me the keys to the detonation code and I'll use REX to fulfill your dream. The dream you never obtained!"

Big Boss stared silently.

"Am I still the failure, father? Even now? I'm following in your footsteps better than he ever did! He's weaker than you ever knew! He gave up after just a few minutes of Ocelot's torture! How can you call that your favored son? Or are you just afraid of how I'm going to surpass you and create the true soldier's paradise? Where men like us can be appreciated and honored like we deserve, not sacrificed like pawns for the whims of faraway men?"

Big Boss stared silently.

"Don't look at me like that, you threw your men against Snake without a thought too. Shoot Gunner, Machine Gun Kid, Black Color, Running Man... It's not a betrayal to sacrifice for a dream! You know that as well as I do!"

Big Boss stared silently.

"Octopus was unavoidable. Mantis, Wolf, Raven...none of them were supposed to fight Snake to the death. Wolf and Raven even managed to survive fighting him. If they hadn't let their lust for battle overtake them, or if they hadn't been too weak to beat Snake, they'd be alive today. They chose to face Snake! They chose their deaths! They were allowed to keep their pride, even at the end. Isn't that what we're fighting for?"

Big Boss stared silently.

Liquid stood there, caught between the greatest soldier of the 20th century and the weapon that would lead the 21st. Neither had answers to give.

* * *

_at the end_

Liquid Snake shoved the wrecked car off and dragged himself to his feet, bloody inch by bloody inch. He could feel multiple broken bones, sore points that would become painful cruises, cuts across his entire chest, his heart irregularly thumping. But he hadn't lost yet. Metal Gear might be destroyed, Shadow Moses might be in ruins, the dream of Outer Heaven might be permanently dead, but he hadn't lost. Not as long as he could still kill Solid Snake.

The machine gun came off the car with a tug that nearly sent him sprawling. He wouldn't fall down, though. Not here. Snake was just across the tilting ground, trapped under his car with the worthless scientist that had designed his precious Metal Gear to fail.

One foot in front of the other. Rasping breaths, forced through his lung's broken cage. The bright light on snow burring before his eyes...but there he was.

"Snake!"

Was he too weak to even push off a car? Pathetic! The scientist was cowering like he always did, while Snake fumbled for a miracle. But there were no miracles, not now. Now was the time for determination to finally win!

"Snaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaake!"

The world stopped.

No, that was his heart.

The gun slipped from hands that no longer had the blood to grip it, and he fell into the soft, powdery snow.

FOXDIE.

Even now, at the very end, his genes betrayed him.

* * *

"So, this is what it's all come to. Anderson and Dr. Clark are both dead, as is Big Boss. But the results of the Les Enfants Terribles project have finally come in, when I'm the only one left to appreciate them. I hope they're all watching, wherever they are. Even you, Snake. Are you proud of your sons, at last?"

"We have determined that the memes that inform a person's life are more important than the genes they were born with. Two clones of the greatest soldier of the 20th century, both expressing slightly different combinations but high overall levels of soldier genes, were given two separate meme cocktails since childhood, then fought each other. Despite a strong showing from Liquid Snake, in the end he perished at the hands of his brother, Solid Snake. He couldn't escape his...'memetic destiny', if you will."

"From the data gathered in this experiment, we can greater determine how to best use memes to influence and ultimately, control, world events. Further experiments in meme therapy suggest themselves, such as using memes to create a super soldier from whole cloth. If this pans out, it will provide a much more reliable and sustainable method than the Genome Soldier project. The data has already been fed into the GW AI for consideration and action. I hope to see positive results soon."

"As for myself...this will likely be my final report. My health just isn't what it used to be. I will continue to watch over the AIs as best I can, but I will be taking a more hands-off approach from now on. Perhaps it's better this way, to leave the world to the simple judgment of machines."

"Major Zero, report completed. Signing off."


End file.
